


C/O Eric Bittle

by luckie_dee



Category: Check Please! (Webcomic)
Genre: (because certainly that's never been done before), 5 Times, Alternate Universe - Different First Meeting, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, M/M, NHL!Jack/Baker!Bitty
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-04-19
Updated: 2017-04-19
Packaged: 2018-10-20 22:24:52
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 12,560
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10671984
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/luckie_dee/pseuds/luckie_dee
Summary: Loosely inspired by this prompt:“I’ve been receiving all your freaking mail since you moved out and you keep getting weird gifts from your brother make it stop” AUfromthis list. But it's not exactly that.OR: Five times Shitty sent gifts for Jack to Eric's address, and one time he didn't.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> **Warnings** : Not many. A few swear words. 
> 
> **Author's Note** : Many thanks to my lovely and talented betas, [Alianne](http://antarcticbird.tumblr.com/) and [Laura](http://foryouandbits.tumblr.com/)! (Special thanks to Laura for coming up with the title and choosing Jack's former team.) If you are one of my Fandom Tr*mps Hate winners, I apologize that this is not your fic. It was supposed to be a quick thing to cure my writer's block that got a bit out of hand. The good news is... it worked! I'm writing again and your fics will be coming soon.

**#1**

The first time it happens is about a month and a half after Eric moves to Providence.

He’s thrilled, though not entirely surprised, to find a package waiting for him in the entryway to his apartment building when he gets home from the bakery. Just a few days ago, he’d been on the phone with his mama, lamenting the fact that Providence still doesn’t feel anything like home, even after six weeks. Of _course_ she'd hustled to send a care package after that — after all, she is the same woman who'd overnighted his favorite rolling pin when he'd turned up homesick during his first year at college. And back then, he'd only been four hours away, not halfway up the Eastern seaboard.

Eric skitters happily up the stairs, wrestles open his door, and promptly drops his bag on the floor, his keys clattering down beside it. He has a nice apartment — in fact, it’s much nicer than he should be able to afford, but the building is owned by a friend of his manager’s, and Eric had been given the opportunity to literally and figuratively sweeten the deal. Apparently, two pies a month and four to-be-determined special occasion cakes were all it took to bring the place into his price range.

When he puts the box on his kitchen table, Eric sees that it's addressed to _My Homesick Son_ in handwriting that he doesn’t recognize. He doesn’t give it much thought. Maybe his mama had dictated the address to the clerk down at the post office (Boone always _had_ been a little eccentric, so he might have taken some liberties). In his haste to get the package open, Eric doesn’t look at the return address at all. He only does that later, once he realizes that the contents are… definitely not from his mama.

His first clue is the note he finds on top of several newspaper-wrapped lumps. _My man_ , it reads, _congrats on the move! It’s been a couple years, but maybe this will make your new place feel more like home. Love ya, Shits_.

Eric stares at the words in confusion. He can’t think of a single person from years ago who would send him a care package and sign themselves _Shits_ — though that certainly sounds like the kind of nickname a person would pick up in Madison, Georgia. He sets the note aside and unwraps each of four bundles, uncovering a can of air freshener, a bottle of sriracha, a ziploc bag full of condoms, and… a cheap, sequined thong, which Eric promptly drops back into the box.

Yes, there’s a very good chance that this particular package was not intended for him.

It could be a part of some strange joke, Eric supposes. That seems far-fetched though; none of his high school classmates should have the faintest idea where he's living now, and really, what would the payoff be?

Eric flips the box closed again and peers at the return address. The box was sent to him by, if his eyes aren’t deceiving him, a _B.S. Knight_ who lives in Boston. The name makes it seem more like a prank, but still, if it is one, Eric can’t make heads or tails of it. Eventually, with a shrug, he puts the sriracha in his cupboard and the air freshener with his cleaning supplies. He’s less sure what to do with the other things — with the way his first month and a half in Providence have gone, he won’t be needing the condoms anytime soon, and would Goodwill even accept bedazzled underwear?

He tucks the box away, and by the time a real care package arrives from Madison, he’s largely forgotten about it.

**#2**

Until it happens again.

There’s another delivery under the mailboxes a little more than a week later, and Eric peers at it cautiously. This one is addressed to _The Great JLZ_ , but it’s from _B.S. Knight_ in Boston again, and Eric grimaces. “This is _some_ kind of B.S.,” he mutters, but he can’t deny that he’s a little curious to see just what’s inside.

It’s a smaller box than the last one, but just like the first mystery gift, it contains a note. _J_ , Eric reads, once he’s in his apartment, _fuckin sucks that you didn’t get my care package bro. How am I supposed to help you get settled in when the USPS fucks it all up. Maybe these will get more use than that other junk anyway. Hope they can contain your gluteus magnificus. Call me xoxo Shits_.

Eric sets the paper aside, grits his teeth, and pulls three packs of novelty men’s briefs out of the box. One set is festooned with comic characters, one with muppets, and the others have a sports theme. And they’re all size 3XL.

He blinks at them for a moment, then sighs as he tosses them back. _Those_ he definitely won’t get any use out of. At least they’re still in the packaging, so he’s fairly sure he’ll be able to donate them. He reaches for the note, intending to put it straight in the recycling bin, when he notices more writing on the back of the page: _P.S. you live at River View Terrace right? I am sending this shit to the right place?_

“Ohhhh,” Eric says. Suddenly, it all makes much more sense.

The River View is the tall, towering complex across the street that would, ironically, block Eric’s view of the river if he happened to live facing it. It’s much newer than Eric’s building, and it glitters with giant windows and balcony railings. It is by far the swankiest place in Eric’s neighborhood — he doesn’t know _exactly_ what the rent is, but he knows he isn’t in the same ballpark as being able to afford it, no matter how many baked goods he could throw in.

Eric double checks the address on the box. Whoever this _Shits_ character is, if he’s trying to get these packages to River View Terrace, he’s got one digit wrong in the street address. While it’s a relief to know that this isn’t some elaborate prank, it also means that, based on context clues, Eric must have a wealthy, very large neighbor who smells bad and likes spicy food (perhaps those issues are related), and also enjoys… having sex with strippers? Eric shakes the thought from his head and stands from the table. At least this gives him something to do about the situation.

After he’s carefully bundled everything back into the boxes — even, guiltily, the sriracha, which he’s used a little of — Eric crosses the street and enters the lobby of the River View. It’s clean and fresh in a way that the entrance to his own apartment building is not. Beyond that, he’s greeted by a locked door, but there is a house phone on the wall, mounted beside a list of tenant names. And there it is, _Apartment #511, Zimmermann_. _The great JLZ_ , Eric thinks. It has to be the same guy.

Eric shuffles the packages so that they rest against his hip and lifts the phone with his free hand. He dials awkwardly, then quickly presses the receiver to his ear as it starts to ring. His call goes unanswered for a few long seconds, and just as Eric is wondering whether he’ll bring the boxes back to his place or leave them in the lobby, there’s a sharp click and a gruff, “Yeah?”

“Oh!” Eric says, startled. “Um, hello… Mr. Zimmermann. My name’s Eric, and I live across the street. I think I’ve been getting some of your mail?” He shifts the boxes, which are starting to slide a bit. “I’ve got a couple of deliveries for you.”

“Deliveries?” the guy asks warily. His voice is deep and quiet, and there’s a slight twist to it, an accent that Eric can’t place after only hearing him speak two words. He sounds younger than Eric expected.

“Two boxes,” Eric replies, “both from Boston. Sent by someone named, um — Knight?”

There’s a pause, and Eric waits. “Did Shitty put you up to this? Is he there with you?” The guy’s voice is so flat that Eric can’t tell if he’s angry or exasperated or amused or what.

“No, sir,” he says, doing his best to keep his tone cheerful. “Just want to make sure these boxes get to their rightful owner.”

“Okay. Could you — uh, just leave them there? I can’t come get them right now. I’m busy.”

Eric finds himself equal parts disappointed and relieved to not be meeting the recipient of the strange and varied gifts he’s holding. He tells himself that he should be glad; after all, the guy could be an axe murderer. As he often finds himself doing when he feels uncomfortable, Eric kicks his Southern charm up to eleven, agreeing with a sunny, “Sure thing! You have a good day now, you hear?” He hears a brief _um, thanks_ before he hangs up the phone and tucks the boxes into the corner of the lobby.

As he crosses back to his own building, he has to admit that his curiosity is grumbling a bit at not being satisfied. _Oh well_ , he thinks. He’ll just have to keep an eye out around the neighborhood; that’s all. This guy can’t be _that_ hard to spot.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Link to tumblr post [here](http://luckiedee.tumblr.com/post/159768876332/co-eric-bittle-zimbits-fic)! Feel free to stop by and say hi. :)


	2. Chapter 2

**#3**

Eric thinks that will be the end of it. The guy can correct his address with his friend, all the weird underwear deliveries will go to the right place, and Eric can go back to living his quiet life in peace.

He’s surprised, then, when he comes home from the bakery the following Monday and finds another box waiting for him. Well, not for _him_ , exactly, or at least he assumes not. This one is significantly larger than the others, and the return address is different, but it’s addressed to “ _My Best Bro_.” Eric sighs and leans over to pick it up, letting out a surprised _oof_ when it’s almost too heavy to comfortably lift. (And Eric is no slouch when it comes to lifting things either — he moves fifty pound bag of flour at work, after all, and although he doesn’t work out nearly as much as he did when he was skating, he never really stopped either.)

Eric can feel his bag slipping off his shoulder, and his keys are still in his pocket. There’s no way he can make it all the way up and into his apartment like this, so he lowers the box back to the floor. Even though he tries to be gentle, it thumps down onto the tile, and Eric winces. At least it he hadn’t heard anything breaking. _New plan_ , Eric thinks: he’ll go up to his place and drop everything off before he deals with… this.

He can’t deny that his curiosity about his increasingly bizarre seeing neighbor is stirring to life, despite his annoyance.

Although he thinks he’s in for another awkward conversation at the lobby phone, he lucks out: as he lugs the box into the River View, sweating a little with the effort, a tall athletic-looking guy is just heading out. “Hey, man, that looks heavy,” he says, holding the door open. “Let me help.”

“Are you sure?” Eric asks, taking the opportunity to boost the box higher in his arms.

“Definitely,” the guy responds. He suddenly fumbles for his pocket with his free hand, emerging with a buzzing cell phone, which he brings to his ear. “Johnson here. Oh, hey man.” He keeps the door open and nods for Eric to pass through.

If Eric were a better person, he’d decline the offer. Maybe gently tell the stranger that while he appreciates the courtesy, it’s not the best idea to let unknown people carrying strange parcels into an apartment building. Eric, however, is not a better person, and what’s more, the box is getting _really_ heavy. Eric mouths a _thank you_ as he slides past, and the guy nods and turns to leave, still talking on his phone.

Eric is grateful to see an elevator in the lobby, because his arms are _aching_ , and there's no way he'd make it up five flights of stairs. He leans against the wall during the short ride to the fifth floor, keeping the box clutched tightly to his stomach, afraid that if he sets it down, he’ll never find the motivation to pick it back up.

When the doors slide open and Eric steps into a long, bright hallway with gleaming hardwood floors, two things happen: he gets terrible butterflies in his stomach, and he realizes that he has a larger problem. He tries to calm this nerves by reminding himself that he tucked his pepper spray in his back pocket — if worse comes to worst, he’ll drop this box on the guy’s foot, spray him in the eyes, and run like hell.

That is… if he can figure out how he’s going to knock. After the long trek across the street, he’s actually afraid that he might not be able to safely set the box back down. In the end, he just kind of — walks into the door and hopes that someone’s home at #511 who will respond to a dull thud.

There is. The same voice that Eric had heard through the house phone calls out, gruff as before, “Who’s there?”

“It’s, um — it’s Eric Bittle?” Eric replies. “From across the street. I got another box in the mail today. For you.”

“How did you get in here?”

Eric shifts the package in his arms and leans it partially against the wall. He hopes he doesn't smudge the paint, but he's too tired to care. “Someone held the door for me downstairs. Do you — do you mind opening up? This is really heavy, and I’m afraid I’m going to hurt my back if I — oh!”

The door swings in slowly, but Eric feels like the words are punched out of him when he sees the guy who’s standing on the other side. Not only is he nothing that Eric had expected, he’s startlingly good looking. Eric also knows who he is. As a matter of fact, his dad had just asked Eric last week on the phone what he thought of the ‘Canes trading Jack Zimmermann — who is standing in front of Eric — to the Falconers, and _what d’ya reckon, Junior, will he have better luck there in Providence_? Because Jack Zimmermann plays for Eric’s hometown team now. And he’s _standing in front of Eric_. “Sweet baby Jesus,” Eric murmurs half under his breath, which isn’t nearly quiet enough.

Jack Zimmermann is still clutching his doorknob in one hand, and in the other, he’s holding his phone, his thumb hovering over the screen. “Look, if you want an autograph or something —”

“No!” Eric exclaims, recovering his wits. “No, lord, I’m so sorry. This is so inappropriate. I had no idea. I’m sorry.” He’s babbling, and he knows it, and he summons a strength he didn’t know he possessed to put a halt to it. Heaving the box away from the wall, he extends it as best he can toward _Jack Zimmermann_. “Here you go. Be careful; it’s heavy. I really am sorry.”

After a moment of wary consideration, Jack leans away from the door to set the phone on something out of Eric’s view. The movement stretches his thin t-shirt across his chest, and Eric guiltily snaps his eyes back up to Jack’s face when he twists back. Whether Jack notices the ogling or not, he leans forward to extract the box from Eric’s grasp, and there is _way_ too much skin to skin contact as he does so, his hands and forearms brushing all along Eric’s as they make the transfer.

Eric steps quickly away as soon as he’s able, clasping his hands behind his back. His face feels like it does after a day in the Georgia sun. “I am so sorry, Mr. Zimmermann,” he repeats. He’s not sure he’s ever understood the meaning of _can’t stress it enough_ as clearly as he does in this very moment.

“You really didn’t know that I live here?” Jack asks, lowering the box to the floor inside the doorway. It appears to weigh a lot less in his arms than it did in Eric’s.

“No,” Eric says quickly, “I swear. None of the boxes had your name on them. And I saw the _Zimmermann_ downstairs, of course, but I didn’t make the connection. I mean, you don’t ever really think that you might live right across the street from someone famous.”

“Famous,” Jack deadpans.

“I mean, I have a cousin who lives down the street from a woman who _supposedly_ went to third grade with Jack McBrayer — you know, from _30 Rock_ — but that’s not really the same thing, is it?” Great, now Jack Zimmermann is looking at him like he’s crazy. Eric forces his tongue firmly back between his teeth. “But to make a long story short — no, I had no idea you lived here.”

Jack nods, and his face relaxes a little. It’s hard to tell, because his expression is just as serious as it had been a few moments before, but Eric’s sure he sees it. “I believe you,” Jack says. He’s holding Eric’s gaze, and gosh, his eyes are blue. “What did you say your name was again?”

“Oh! I’m Eric Bittle.” His hand shoots out toward Jack, almost of its own accord. It’s shaking slightly with nerves and from the exertion of carrying the box, and there are red lines across his forearm from the weight of it. “Nice to meet you, Mr. Zimmermann.”

Jack’s hand feels _huge_ around Eric’s. “Call me Jack. We are neighbors, after all.”

“Okay,” Eric says. “Jack.”

There’s a hideous moment of silence, during which Eric comes to the sudden, horrible realization that he’s absolutely _mooning_ at Jack. He blinks — not sure if he’s done so at all over the past two minutes — and looks to the side, the long stretch of white wall, the floor. He’s just about to take his leave when Jack blurts out, “And thanks for bringing this over.” He nudges the box with the toe of one sneaker. “Shitty… uh, my friend… warned me that there was one more thing coming to your address.”

“What is it?” Eric can’t help but ask. “Bricks? Anvils?”

It’s Jack’s turn to drop his gaze, and he grimaces minutely. “Just some memorabilia he found on eBay.”

“Well…” Eric says, and his voice trails away when he realizes he has no idea what to say to that. “I hope you enjoy it,” he finally finishes. “I’ll let you get back to —” he has absolutely no idea what Jack was doing before he showed up “— uh, well, I’ll leave you alone.”

To his surprise, Jack extends his hand again in a quick, jerky movement, and he gives Eric’s another firm shake. “Thanks. Thanks again. It was nice to meet you.”

“You too,” Eric replies. He backs away a step, then another. He feels like there should be more to say. “And I’m sorry I used some of the sriracha!” he blurts.

Jack looks surprised and confused. “Oh. That’s okay.”

“Okay!” Eric squeaks out. “Bye now!”

He turns on his heel and just barely manages to not sprint back down the hall.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Link to tumblr post [here](http://luckiedee.tumblr.com/post/159768876332/co-eric-bittle-zimbits-fic)! Feel free to stop by and say hi. :)


	3. Chapter 3

**#4**

Back in the blissful, innocent days when Eric hadn’t known the identity of the mystery package recipient over at the River View, he’d watched people’s faces closely on the street, wondering if each one he passed had some sort of strange underwear fetish. Now he keeps an even keener eye out, hoping that he might get another glimpse of Jack Zimmermann. Undergarment proclivities aside, Eric certainly wouldn’t mind seeing his handsome face (or his professional-athlete body) again. Maybe Jack would even smile at him and say hi. And Eric would return the greeting, and…

He forcibly yanks himself away from the thought. He’d ruined an entire batch of muffins that very morning at the bakery by overmixing the dough while losing himself in very similar fantasies, and he’s still reeling with shame, no matter how kind and understanding his manager had been. If he keeps woolgathering out here on the street, he’s going to run headlong into someone — someone who will probably _not_ be Jack, he reminds himself. And today, there’s also the very real chance that if he gets too distracted, he’ll drown, what with the way the rain is coming down in sheets.

Eric’s relieved when he finally pushes inside the door of his building. While he checks his mail, he drips all over the tile floor — and all over the box at his feet. He almost doesn’t bend to check the label because he certainly hasn’t ordered anything on his limited budget and his mama hasn’t dropped any hints. At the last moment, he looks at it just in case, and inhales sharply when he sees that the package is addressed to _J. Zimmermann c/o E. Bittle_.

“What in the fresh hell…?” Eric mutters. A glance at the return address reveals that it’s from _B.S. Knight_ , the same as the others. When Eric picks the box up, he catches sight of a handwritten note scrawled on its side: _Eric, my man, please deliver in person_.

An excuse to see Jack again. Not just an excuse, an order. Eric’s heart gives a traitorous little flutter in his chest.

Okay, he’s going to deliver the box to Jack. He peers down at his dripping clothes, knows that his hair is a sodden mess on his head.

Just maybe not right this second.

*

The driving rain and thunderstorms continue into the evening, and Eric eventually decides to delay his errand until the following day. It leaves his evening free to make a batch of cherry mini-pies and fuss with the top crusts to distract himself. He rolls out some sheets and cuts stars in the middle with a tiny cookie cutter, weaves lattices over others, and on a whim, mixes up a crumble for the last pan. Unfortunately, even that effort leaves him more than enough time for some very distracting internet research while the pies bake and cool.

Eric quickly and easily confirms that Jack is overwhelmingly attractive, but he manages to drag himself away from pictures after a few minutes to look up Jack’s stats and start browsing Google results. He knows a couple of things about Jack — after all, he is one of the few professional athletes who’s… well. Eric’s not even sure if _out_ is the right word. After Kent Parson had made NHL history by being the first player to _actually_ come out during the previous offseason, Jack had issued a brief statement confirming a past relationship between the two, but Eric learns after only a few clicks that he’s staunchly refused to talk about it since. Then he’d suffered a horrific broken collarbone six weeks into the season and disappeared for the rest of it, while the media swarmed to cover Parson and his boyfriend.

There are still a lot of articles about Jack’s sexuality, whatever it is, as well as the successes and failures of his youth, his two injury-plagued seasons with the ’Canes, and his recent trade to the Falconers. Eric thinks that a lot of it seems awfully sensationalized, especially considering that Jack — _reportedly_ a barely-reformed party boy who’s riding his father’s coattails — had flourished when he played in college.

On the other hand, maybe there’s something to this whole sparkly-thong nonsense after all.

Realizing that over an hour has passed and feeling disgusted with himself, Eric slams his laptop cover shut. He goes to sleep with his head reeling. When he wakes up, the sky is a flat slate gray, but it’s not raining and despite all of the negative things he'd read, Eric is still excited about the prospect of seeing Jack again.

He styles himself carefully, choosing an outfit that’s flattering but casual-seeming and coiffing his hair into a careful tousle. It doesn’t occur to him until he’s halfway across the street that Jack might not even be at home. But that’s exactly what happens — there’s no answer when he calls up to Jack’s apartment, and that leaves Eric with a dilemma. He _could_ just leave the package in the entryway, maybe with a cheerful note reminding Jack of his existence. It would save him from the embarrassment he feels about bringing over another box, like he’s faked the whole thing to worm his way back into Jack’s building. Eric shuffles on his feet, on the verge of just tucking the package into the corner and making a break for it, when he glances down again, sees _please deliver in person_.

He leaves the River View with the box in his hands. He has his marching orders, after all, even if they come from a person who would rather go by a curse word than a name.

*

It’s Eric’s day off, and by the time late afternoon rolls around, he’s added two batches of cookies to the mini pies from the previous night. It’s far too much for one person, and on a whim, he throws a selection of treats into a Tupperware container for his next trip over to Jack’s. Coming armed with a baked goods make him feel both more at ease — it _is_ his natural state, after all — and like he’s making the whole situation even more uncomfortable.

This time, when he calls up to Jack’s apartment, there’s an answer. “Yeah?” It’s the brusque, wary greeting that Eric is expecting, and his heart leaps into his throat.

“Hi! Jack, hi. It’s Eric. Eric Bittle, from across the street? I was here a few days ago to —”

“Bittle?” Jack cuts him off.

Eric flushes. He has no idea how to interpret that reaction. Jack’s voice is as devoid of any inflection, especially through the phone. “Yes, hi! There was another package for you delivered over at my place.”

“There was?”

“Yes,” Eric confirms, feeling really nervous now. “Should I… I can leave it here, or —” He jumps as he’s cut off by a sharp buzz, and he just manages to grab the door and yank it open without dropping anything.

He also survives the elevator ride to the fifth floor without throwing up from nerves, and that feels like more of an accomplishment than it should.

Eric composes himself, though, as the doors slide open. He is _not_ going to be intimidated by celebrity or attractiveness. Jack Zimmermann is just a _person_ , the same way that Eric is, or any one of his regulars at the bakery. He’s no different than sweet old Mrs. Schubinski, who comes in every Friday for coffee and always orders a muffin for her husband and cookies for her granddaughters. Jack Zimmermann is just a person who puts his pants on one leg at a time, and Jack Zimmermann —

— is swinging the door open as Eric walks up to it, and he’s shower-damp, with actual visible wet patches on his gray t-shirt, which is sinfully-fitting _anyway_ , and _this is Eric’s punishment for assuming he could be at all cool in this situation_. “Hi,” Eric says, squeezing the word out of his throat even though it feels like he’s swallowed his own tongue. “Again.”

“Hey, Bittle,” Jack replies, and Eric wonders if it’s the athlete in Jack that would lead him to default to someone’s last name. Jack nods at the box. “Uh — is that it?” If Eric’s not mistaken, Jack winces a little when the words are out.

“The bottom one, yeah.” Eric extends it towards him, and Jack lifts it from his arms, frowning at the Tupperware perched on top. “And those are some cookies for you, and a mini pie,” Eric explains. “It was my day off, so I had some time on my hands.”

Jack has already juggled everything to set the box aside and crack the lid on Eric’s baked goods, which he’s eyeing appreciatively. “Day off from what?”

“I work in a bakery,” Eric says, and he blushes afresh when Jack looks back up at him, one eyebrow twitching up.

“And you spent your day off — baking?” Jack asks. “That would be like me spending my day off on skates.” He reseals the Tupperware and sets it aside, out of the way inside his apartment and out of sight.

“Are you saying you wouldn’t?” Eric retorts, cocking his head. If there’s one thing that Eric’s Google searching had turned up, it’s the fact that Jack Zimmermann is as hopelessly devoted to hockey as Sandy was to Danny.

One corner of Jack’s mouth nudges up. “ _Touche_.”

The exchange and the tiny smile thaw something in Eric, and he grins right back. “We all have our obsessions, Mr. Zimmermann. You just count yourself lucky that yours pays as well as it does. You tell me later if those aren’t million dollar cookies, though.”

Jack ducks his head a bit, and he lifts one hand to rub at the back of his neck. “I, uh — I’ll do that. Thanks for bringing them. And sorry my friend sent you another box. I gave him the right address.”

“I believe you,” Eric says. “Check the label.”

Brow furrowed, Jack retrieves the package. His eyes skirt across the address and he groans softly. “He didn’t.”

“And the note on the side,” Eric adds, pointing it out. There’s another minute shift in Jack’s expression, one that Eric might not have noticed if he weren’t watching closely, and if he had to guess, he’d say that this is Jack’s media-face version of _tortured_. He appears to be struggling for words, and Eric takes pity on him. “Oh, Jack, don’t be upset. It’s not a big deal. I don’t mind running over here.”

“I’m sorry,” Jack finally says, “for him. He… I think he thinks I’m lonely here. I guess he’s trying to find me people to hang out with.”

Eric makes a small noise of sympathy. “Are you?”

“Am I what?”

“Lonely here?” Eric bites his lip when the words are out, realizing too late that it’s a fairly personal question.

Jack just shrugs. “The guys are great,” he says, and then he pauses. “I don’t know. I’ve only been here for a few weeks. I think it just doesn’t feel like home yet.”

“Well, I can understand that,” Eric replies. “I’ve only lived in Providence a couple of months myself. I’m not from here originally.”

“No, really?” Jack says, and although his tone barely changes, it dawns on Eric that he’s being teased. “I never would have guessed.”

“Oh, hush you,” Eric retorts. “You don’t exactly sound like a local boy either.”

Jack snorts. “Not exactly.”

The moment lapses into awkward silence. If it were someone else, Eric would ask where he’s from, but he feels weird about it when he knows very well that Jack was born in Montreal. He’d read it himself less than a day ago, on Jack’s Wikipedia page and his NHL.com profile and in any number of other online articles. Maybe Eric should ask anyway, to be polite. Or maybe _Jack_ should be asking _Eric_ where he’s from. He would, wouldn’t he? If he were interested in Eric? _As a person_ , Eric tells himself, _that’s all_. As someone to hang out with maybe. Not like… _that_.

And now he’s waited too long. Eric drops his eyes and ends up looking at the box, which Jack is still clutching in front of him. “So, uh,” Eric says haltingly, “you weren’t expecting that one?”

“What?” Jack startles and glances down at the package. “Oh, no. This one’s a surprise.” He cradles it in one arm and starts to peel back the tape.

Eric shifts in the direction of the elevators. “I’ll just leave you to it…”

Jack looks back up. “You don’t want to see what it is?”

“Are you sure _you_ want me to?” Eric asks skeptically. “The stuff in those first two boxes was — personal.”

It’s enough to make Jack’s hands still on the box. “Oh, um. Those were joke presents. Shitty has a… unique personality.”

“And you aren’t afraid that this might be unique?” Eric gestures at the half-opened package.

Jack squints at it. “I suppose it might be. Maybe we’ll find out together, eh? It is addressed to both of us.”

The words make something bloom low and hot in Eric’s stomach, the word _us_ referring to Jack and him, and from Jack’s mouth no less. “If you insist,” Eric says grandly, and Jack rips back the rest of the tape.

He pulls out a Post-It first, reads the message scribbled on it: “Jacko, here’s something to do in all your free time, ha ha.” His voice is monotone as ever, and Eric stifles a giggle. Jack looks unaccountably flustered, and he balls up the note, tossing it aside. There are two smaller boxes nestled underneath, and Eric leans forward to see — model airplane kits. Which is not at all what Eric expected. Maybe not even the thousandth thing. Jack is examining them with interest, however.

“You — make model airplanes?” Eric asks incredulously.

“I never have before, but these are World War Two bombers,” Jack replies, like that explains everything.

“Oh. You like World War Two?”

Jack shrugs. “Yeah. History in general. I have a history degree.”

Eric nods slowly. None of _that_ really fits with the narrative the sports writers of the world are trying to push about Jack Zimmermann, but he looks so quietly pleased that Eric has a hard time believing that he’s not telling the truth. It’s… endearing.

That's the exact moment — as Eric feels himself smiling softly while Jack examines a model airplane kit — that he knows that this is going a bit too far. Not _this_ exactly, not the situation or the conversation, but Eric himself and his tattletale heart, which is tripping rapidly along in his chest, and his flushed face and his adoring gaze. A celebrity crush is one thing, but this is morphing too quickly into something else. Jack Zimmermann could date models if he wanted to — male or female — and certainly wouldn't opt for the overly friendly baker from across the street who keeps turning up on his doorstep at random intervals. Eric is only going to torture himself if he allows this to continue.

“That’s — that’s great, Jack,” Eric says. “Listen, I have to get going. I’m, um. I’m meeting a friend for coffee, maybe dinner, so I really need to…” Eric pauses, then lamely repeats, “get going.”

“Oh.” Eric has to be imagining that Jack seems a bit more subdued than he had a moment ago. “Well, I hope you have fun,” he adds.

“Me too,” Eric replies. His feet are itching to move, and he takes a few steps down the hall as he he keeps talking. “And I hope you enjoy those cookies. Pies are my specialty though, so you’d better really enjoy that.”

Jack smiles a little. “I’m sure I will. Thanks for bringing it all over.”

“No problem at all,” Eric calls, already turning, already halfway gone. Even though Jack retreats into his apartment and closes his door, Eric waits for the elevator to slide shut before he buries his face in his hands.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Link to tumblr post [here](http://luckiedee.tumblr.com/post/159768876332/co-eric-bittle-zimbits-fic)! Feel free to stop by and say hi. :)


	4. Chapter 4

**#5**

It’s less than a week before the next box shows up. Eric has spent the intervening five days alternately indulging his feelings and wrestling them, and when he sees the package sitting below his mailbox, he mostly feels resignation low in his gut. Somehow, he just _knows_ that it’s not going to be for one of his neighbors, and he’s right. This time, the note on the side says _Please deliver to the Canadian beaut in the tower yonder_.

Eric does think it’s kind of a shame that when all is said and done, he’s never going to meet this Shitty character.

He considers shuttling the box immediately over to the River View and just dropping it in the lobby. He doesn’t have to be a pawn in whatever strange postal delivery games that Jack’s friend has dreamed up. What incentive does he have to play along? He doesn’t have to put his heart on the line, which he most certainly will if he keeps learning things about Jack that make him seem so damn charming. Eric has suffered enough unrequited crushes in his life and isn't eager for another.

As soon as Eric works up a good head of indignation, however, it’s tempered by a twinge of guilt. Maybe this Shitty guy has a weird way of trying to fix it, but if he’s worried that Jack is lonely — well, who would know better than one of Jack’s friends? Eric knows that Jack hasn’t had an easy couple of years since joining the NHL, and it does make Eric’s chest ache a little to think of him in his apartment across the street, dealing with the stresses of being alone in a new place after being injured, facing a mountain of expectations that he has yet to live up to while sports media speculates about his life and sexuality. Although standoffish, Jack has been nothing but nice to Eric, and he’s done so in the face of a very strange set of circumstances. Eric sighs. He isn’t sure if he can help, but against his better judgment, he wants to try.

Eric spends the rest of the evening looking up protein bar recipes and bookmarking his favorites. He makes three different kinds the following night. The cranberry dark chocolate are his favorite, but he boxes up a selection of all three and plans to deliver them the next afternoon, after he gets home from a half-day shift.

He doesn’t take any special pains to look nice — unless taking a quick shower to wash off the sweat of a hot shift at the bakery counts as special, or changing into a fresh t-shirt. It’s the same courtesy Eric would give to anyone, he thinks, as he grabs the latest delivery from Shitty and the protein bars and sets out across the street, his stomach dancing with nerves.

With his best _fake it ‘til you make it_ attitude, Eric jauntily calls Jack’s apartment. He thrills when he hears Jack’s inhospitable _yeah?_ , then tries to tamp his reaction back to _pleased_ as he says, “Hi Jack, it’s Eric.”

“Bittle?” Even through the house phone, Jack sounds a bit surprised. Or maybe Eric's just getting better at reading him.

“That’s me!” he chirps. “I’ve got another delivery for you from your friend.”

“Come on up,” Jack says, and there’s nothing more from the phone, but the door buzzes harshly in the small space.

Once again, when Eric gets to the fifth floor, Jack opens the door before he even has the chance to knock. “Bittle, hey,” he says, and he’s even smiling a little. Before Eric can respond, Jack asks, in a deliberate way that almost seems rehearsed, “Do you want to come in?”

 _Is apple pie better with ice cream?_ Eric doesn’t say. Of _course_ he wants to see a professional athlete’s apartment. He spares a quick thought to whether it's a safe decision — he hasn’t been bringing his pepper spray over any more — but he feels comfortable enough after chatting with Jack, and he steps in with a cheery, “Absolutely.”

He doesn’t regret it. Once they’re through the entryway, Jack’s apartment opens out in front of Eric, a large, open-concept space with a recessed living area, a pool table, and what looks like as many windows as Eric’s apartment has walls. Eric’s eyebrows shoot up as he takes it all in, and he bites back a low whistle.

Jack, meanwhile, is already peering at the Tupperware container in Eric’s hands. “You didn’t have to bring me more food,” he says, even as he looks entirely too interested. “I eat a lot, but it’s supposed to be healthy stuff.”

Eric preens. “Well then, feast your eyes on _this_.” He lifts the lid with a flourish. “And I guess you can feast your stomach on them too.”

He extends the Tupperware to Jack, who immediately lifts it to his face to take a deep inhale. “What are they?”

“Protein bars,” Eric says proudly, and he has to try not to laugh at the startled, understated awe on Jack’s face. “These ones are dark chocolate cranberry, these —” Eric points “—are green tea, but then I was worried that you might not like tea —”

“I do,” Jack interjects.

“— so I made these too. They’re strawberry and coconut.”

Jack looks up at Eric, and his expression is something warm and new. “You _really_ didn’t have to do this.”

Eric waves him off, but he’s blushing yet again. “Don’t be silly. If we’re on a first-name basis, it’s only a matter of time before I make you food. It’s my _raison d’etre_.”

He’s surprised when Jack’s lips quirk. “You know my first language was French, right?”

Eric does, but he’s still not eager to let on exactly how creepy he's been. “That makes sense.”

“Your accent is terrible,” Jack points out, but there’s a playfulness about it that keeps Eric from thinking it’s unkind.

“Please,” Eric says with a roll of his eyes. “Clearly, I’m starting at a disadvantage. Let’s hear you say it then.” Jack does, and then he says something else, a whole string of French words ending in the same ones again. Eric feels like the floor is melting out from under his feet, and he has to take a moment to gather himself before he speaks. “Okay, you said way more than I did.”

Jack shrugs. “Kind of. I said that making food for — for people is your _raison d’etre_. I just made it into a complete sentence.”

“Ah,” Eric says, and then finds himself at a bit of a loss.

After a few seconds of silence, Jack blurts, “I like your accent.”

Eric feels a confused line etch its way across his forehead, and he laughs. “You just said it was terrible.”

“It was,” Jack says, then flinches. “Not that. I mean just — your voice. Your accent is nice.”

“Oh lord,” Eric groans. “Are you making fun of me again? Because I can’t help it! If you’d grown up in Georgia, you’d sound just the same!”

“No!” Jack is flushed more noticeably than Eric’s ever seen now. “I really do like it.”

Eric’s sure he’s no less red or flustered. “Oh. Well. This drawl,” he says, recovering and pointing to his own mouth, exaggerating his twang for fun, “ain’t never gonna let me speak French like _that_.” He waves a hand in Jack’s direction.

Some of the tension drains out of Jack’s posture. “That’s okay.” He looks back down at the Tupperware bin full of protein bars still grasped in his hands and changes the subject abruptly. “I was just about to make some dinner, but maybe I’ll just eat these instead.”

“Oh?” Eric says, keeping his voice chipper and ignoring the sense of dragging disappointment he feels. “Well, I can leave you alone if you were about to cook.”

“It’s just some chicken and pasta. Nothing fancy.” Jack pauses, briefly but noticeably, a look of uncertainty flashing across his face. Then he adds, “if you want to, you could… do you want to… eat?”

Eric stares at him for a moment. “Here? With you?”

There’s an unexpected glimmer of mirth in Jack’s eyes. “No, Bittle, I’m asking if you want to go back to your place and eat by yourself.”

A startled laugh punches its way out of Eric’s throat, and he cuts it off but can’t help the way he’s left grinning. “Well, if you wanted to ask me to have dinner, you could have just said so,” he teases back, before he realizes how forward it sounds and promptly chastises himself. _You stop that right now, Eric Richard Bittle. Jack’s just lonely. He’s_ lonely _, enough that his friends are worried, and if he’s gonna be taking people in for company, he’s lucky that you showed up and not some crazed stalker who’d end up drugging him and cutting off locks of his hair to sell on eBay_. “I mean, do I want to eat?” he rushes on, before Jack can respond. “’Course I do. My love affair with food is _life long_ , Mr. Zimmermann. My Moomaw put a mixing spoon in my hand before I could reach the counter.”

He’s rambling, he knows, but thankfully, Jack looks more amused than anything else. “Well then, I should warn you that it’s not exactly gourmet. It’s frozen chicken and a jar of pasta sauce.”

“A jar, hmmm?” Eric asks. “Let’s see what you have to work with.”

*

Eric soon learns that Jack has a grocery delivery service and enough ingredients to make a quick red sauce. It’s not that Eric is _opposed_ to convenience foods — “We all eat bagel bites when life gets busy,” he tells Jack honestly, “and your life is really busy” — but there’s something about cooking food and teaching someone else to do it too that makes him feel more comfortable than waiting for Jack Zimmermann to dump some Prego on some pasta. Jack, thankfully, seems interested enough.

He’s not a slouch with a knife either, making quick work of dicing an onion. “Eh, my dad likes to cook,” Jack explains, when Eric compliments his handiwork. “He started teaching me some of this stuff pretty early. But then there was hockey, and well… I never finished learning.”

“Your dad likes to _cook_?” Eric asks. He wonders if that means for Bad Bob Zimmermann what it does for his own father: experimenting with different things to slather on meat before he grills it.

Jack’s voice is carefully neutral when he responds. “So you know who he is.”

Eric senses the sore spot. The truthful answer is _not really, not until recently, when I spent an hour and a half getting acquainted with you through Google_ , but he’s nowhere near ready to own up to that. Instead, he says, lightly, “I’ve heard of him. My mama was a _big_ fan of his, you know —”

“Oh no,” Jack mutters.

“— and I _did_ play hockey for a couple of years, so it’s not entirely a foreign concept.”

The announcement is met with silence. Eric can practically _feel_ Jack pausing, considering, and he jumps back in before Jack can stick his foot in his mouth, like so many people before him. “Yeah, yeah, just get all that disbelief out now. I’m short and I’m small, but I’ll have you know —” he points the spatula he’s holding menacingly at Jack “— I’m a speed demon on the ice. Your teammates might be able to flatten me, but they’d never find out ‘cause they’d never catch up to me.”

Jack raises his hands in surrender. “I didn’t say a single word, Bittle. Not a single word.”

“I can hear you thinking,” Eric grumbles. He gives the sauce ingredients a final stir in the pan and turns the burner heat to low. “Now we’ve just gotta let this simmer for a bit. Should be done about the same time as the chicken. It would be better with fresh herbs, but even so, I think you’ll like it better than that,” he says, indicating the jarred sauce sitting discarded on the countertop. “And it’s healthier. Now, let’s get some water boiling for that pasta.”

Once everything is cooking away, Eric gestures at the box he carried over, sitting out of the way across the kitchen. “Aren’t you curious to see what he got you this time?”

“I suppose I should find out,” Jack says, and there’s a note of trepidation in his voice. He retrieves the box, slits its edges, opens it — and, just as Eric is leaning over to peer inside, slams it shut again.

Eric looks up in surprise, and he’s even more shocked when he sees how red Jack’s face has gone. Eric hadn’t seen more than a glimpse of brightly colored packaging himself. “What on earth is it?”

“It’s, euh —” Jack stammers, still holding the box shut tightly, “it’s just another joke present. Shitty can be, um. Bold.”

Somehow, Eric manages to keep his voice mild, even though he’s just about dying of curiosity. “I’d say so,” he comments. He remembers the thong, after all. Jack doesn’t seem like he’s going to be forthcoming about the contents of the box, so Eric asks again, “Well, what is it? It was addressed to me, after all. I promise I won’t get offended.”

Jack actually lifts the package from the counter and starts to back away. “Trust me on this one, Bittle. It’s better if you don’t know.”

Then he all but darts from the room, and Eric is left squinting suspiciously at the doorway.

Jack refuses to answer any questions about it when he returns, instead steering the conversation gracelessly to where Eric’s from and what brought him to Providence. Eric simplifies his reasoning to _a guaranteed job_ , _mostly_ , because his new manager is his college adviser's cousin. He adds that after spending his entire life in Georgia, he wanted to try living somewhere else, but he glosses over why. Jack accepts the answer at face value.

They finish and plate their meals, eating side-by-side on Jack’s leather sofa. After some time, Eric realizes just how long he’s been prattling on about himself and his family’s jam feud — which Jack can’t possibly begin to care about, although he’s hiding what must be disinterest valiantly — and forces himself to turn the tables. “Anyway,” he says abruptly, changing the subject with as much finesse as Jack had earlier, “I would ask what brought you to Providence, but I know that already.”

“Yeah,” Jack replies. He twirls some noodles onto his fork, but doesn’t lift it to his mouth. “I’m just glad the Falconers were willing to take a chance on me.”

“It’s hardly _taking a chance_ ,” Eric points out. “You play amazing hockey, when you’re out there. You were racking up points before you broke your collarbone, and how many collegiate records did you set? And you must be all healed up and ready to go by now, right?”

Jack nods. “Collarbone’s as good as it ever was, and I haven’t had my bell rung in almost two years.”

“Then there’s no reason to believe you won’t be kickin’ ass all up and down the ice this year, is there?”

Jack smiles ruefully around a mouthful of pasta. “Ask the fans in Carolina. I think the nicest thing you’ll hear is _injury prone_. And not many teams want the rest of the media circus, eh?”

It’s suddenly a delicate moment, and Eric wants desperately not to botch it. He could play dumb, pretend that Jack is just talking about the attention that comes from his legacy, but he doesn’t _like_ being disingenuous. Moreover, he doesn’t want to gloss over the other difficulties Jack has faced, especially not when he can relate in ways that Jack might only suspect. “I think it’s wonderful that the Falconers are willing to deal with whatever _totally unnecessary_ media bullshit comes their way because they signed a great player,” he finally says. “The rest of it shouldn’t matter anyway.”

Beside him, Jack is quiet. Eric can’t even stand to look over, so afraid he might have overstepped his bounds, and he nearly jumps when Jack speaks again, quietly. “I wanted at least a year of good hockey under my belt before… before anything was public. I don’t have that yet. But there were so many rumors already… I thought it would be better to just say something and try to put it to rest.”

Eric flares with anger, though not at Jack. “It shouldn’t matter if you have a full year of hockey under your belt, or none, or if you’re the worst player in the league.”

“I know,” Jack says, “but fans don’t see it the same.”

“I know,” Eric echoes. He sighs. “I wanted to keep playing after high school, and I found a beer league when I was in college. Went out to the rink once and what with all the comments and the looks — I just couldn’t bring myself to go back.”

“I’m sorry.”

Eric swipes a piece of chicken around his plate, chasing sauce. “I know it’s not the same, but…”

“Maybe, maybe not,” Jack speaks up when Eric doesn’t continue. “Either way, if you love to play and you can’t play… it sucks.”

“It does. I haven’t been on skates in months.” Eric huffs out another breath and pops the chicken in his mouth.

“That’s terrible,” Jack replies. There’s more feeling in his voice than there had been during the entire preceding conversation.

Eric smirks a little and glances over at him. “Have you ever not been on skates for months?”

“Of course.”

“Well, now, _that_ I find hard to believe,” Eric teases, hoping to lighten the mood. “I half expected to find you in skates when I knocked.”

“Two months after my concussion,” Jack points out.

Swallowing his last bite of dinner, Eric stretches forward to put his plate on the coffee table. “That’s nothing. I’m talking more like seven or eight.”

Jack cuts him a sideways look. “Well, I wasn’t born with skates on, and my parents didn’t get me on the ice until I was a year and a half old. That’s eighteen whole months.”

Eric rolls his eyes in response. “That’s not what I meant, and you know it.”

“Other than that, no,” Jack confirms, one corner of his mouth tilting up.

Eric bites back on his own smile. “And thank the lord you weren’t born with them on, as much as I might have expected it. Your poor mother.”

He’s rewarded with a low chuckle. It’s the first time he’s heard Jack laugh, and it warms him from head to toe.

Having moved on sufficiently from the seriousness of their previous conversation, Jack brings the plates back to the kitchen and splits the leftovers so that Eric has some to bring back to his own apartment. They chat amicably when Jack returns with the protein bars and immediately begins devouring them. Eric stops him after two, one each of the dark chocolate almond and strawberry coconut, insisting that the green tea has too much caffeine for the late hour. “I mean it is after…” Eric checks his watch and blushes. “Um, eight o’clock.”

“Is it that late already?” Jack asks, a touch of surprise coloring his voice.

Eric takes it as another one of Jack’s dry jokes and frowns. “I’ll have you know that I have to get to the bakery _early_ tomorrow. In college, there were nights I didn’t _start_ baking until one in the morning. You’re a professional athlete — you should know how important a good night’s sleep is.”

Jack fixes him with a small, amused smile. “Of course I do. I have to go to bed soon so I won’t be too tired for my morning run.”

“Oh,” Eric says. Flustered, he looks down at the Tupperware of protein bars resting between their bodies on the couch. He settles the lid on top and starts to secure it in place. “Well, in that case, I guess we should get to bed. I mean —” Eric fumbles, pressing too hard on one corner and nearly upsetting the entire container “— oh lord.”

Jack darts out a hand to keep the contents from tumbling onto the sofa, and his fingers collide with Eric’s. They freeze, everything in precarious balance, until Jack carefully angles the Tupperware back and sets everything to rights. Eric snatches his own hands back and tries to regain his place. “I mean, I should be heading home so we can both get some sleep, then. In our own beds. Thank you so much for dinner.” He all but shoots to his feet.

“Hang on, Bittle; there’s no fire,” Jack says, standing as well, but at a much slower pace. He looks a little uncertain. “Don’t forget your leftovers.”

Eric had been just about to do just that, but he blusters on. “Of course not, Jack, thank you.”

“Wait here,” Jack instructs him, and then he disappears into the kitchen.

Taking advantage of his absence, Eric closes his eyes briefly and sucks in a deep breath. “Pull it together, Dicky,” he mutters. _You’re not actually some demure Southern belle_ , he chastises himself internally. _There’s no need to swoon just because a man touched your hand, no matter how beautiful that man might be_.

He’s collected himself reasonably well by the time Jack emerges with the leftovers, packaged neatly in the Tupperware container from Eric’s last trip over. Eric is even able to thank Jack politely and walk with him to the front door. Once there, he finds himself at a loss for what he’s supposed to say by way of goodbye. If the situation were different, he might suggest that they do it again sometime, or exchange numbers. He’s not _great_ at making a move, but he could come up with something. _I want to send you that red sauce recipe_ , maybe, or _now text me when I can come pick up my Tupperware_. But standing there, in the entryway to Jack’s apartment, it seems ill advised at best and wildly inappropriate at worst. Not to mention potentially humiliating.

So instead, even though he’s already done so ad nauseum, he expresses his gratitude again.

“You really don’t need to thank me,” Jack says. He’s holding the door halfway open, and they’re both still inside it. Eric would have to practically press up against him in order to leave. “You did most of the work. I should be thanking you.”

“But you bought everything,” Eric reminds him, “and you were a very gracious host. And you helped!”

Jack nods. “Then I guess we’re both to blame.” He pulls the door the rest of the way open and steps back.

That makes up Eric’s mind more than anything. He tries to shove aside the sinking sense of disappointment he feels, but he’d rather acknowledge that than the growing realization of how _foolish_ he’d been, to pretend that there was any real possibility of — anything. It makes his limbs clumsy, and the edge of his shoe skids along the floor as he tries to make his way out. He stumbles, briefly, barely, and the hand that Jack steadies him with isn’t really necessary. Eric flushes, as much from the feeling of Jack’s warm skin on his bare elbow than the embarrassment of tripping. “Oh gosh,” he gasps, then cranes to look at Jack, who’s _right there_ , much closer than he’d been a second before. _Stepped forward to help_ , Eric thinks dizzily. The hallway is empty, and Eric is surprised his heartbeat isn’t echoing off the walls.

“Careful, Bittle,” Jack says, his voice low. He slowly slides his hand off of Eric’s arm, but he doesn’t move away.

Eric stays frozen in place for a few seconds. At least he thinks he’s not moving, but then he feels that the muscles in his legs are working, because he’s actually starting to _lift up onto his toes_ to bring his face closer to Jack’s, and he panics. A _surge_ of adrenaline fires through his body and he lurches away instead, further out into the hall. “Goodness, Jack, I’m sorry. Thank you again. For catching me, not for dinner. I mean, of course thank you for that too but —” he takes a deep breath “— I hope you have a good run tomorrow. A new personal best! Or just a nice jog, if you’re not going for speed. Anyway, good night!”

Jack watches him, brow furrowed just slightly. “Okay. Have a good day at work. Good night.”

“Good night,” Eric repeats dumbly, backing two steps down the hallway. Jack just watches him go, standing in the door and making no moves to shut it. Finally, Eric yanks his gaze away, and turns to beat a hasty retreat.

He doesn’t turn around until he’s in the elevator and it’s sliding shut. When he does, Jack is gone.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Link to tumblr post [here](http://luckiedee.tumblr.com/post/159768876332/co-eric-bittle-zimbits-fic)! Feel free to stop by and say hi. :)


	5. Chapter 5

**+1**

Eric thinks that maybe the worst part of the whole thing is that he can’t talk to anyone about it.

(It’s not. The worst part of it is the burning embarrassment. But he’s trying really hard not to think about that.)

And truth be told, he _could_ talk to his friends about it. Jack isn’t _exactly_ in the closet, so it wouldn’t be a matter of outing him, but it still feels invasive somehow. Moreover, despite how outgoing he can be, Eric doesn’t have any close friends in Providence, not yet. He likes his coworkers at the bakery, and he’s spent some time outside of work with some of them, but he’s not sure that he’s ready to share something that he’s so deeply fussed about with people who are more acquaintances than anything else. Eric _has_ been keeping in touch with his closest friends from college, but even though they’re an option to confide in, Eric just… doesn’t.

So he suffers in silence, and after a day or two of reflection, he changes his mind. Even worse than having no one to talk to or the humiliation is the fact that he _doesn’t know_.

He has no way of knowing if Jack had been bothered (or confused or disgusted) by whatever had or hadn’t transpired at his doorstep. Who _knows_ what he must be thinking of Eric now — he could be the laughingstock of the Falconers locker room. Jack’s goodbye had been inscrutable, and Eric doesn’t have any way of contacting him, of sussing him out. They hadn’t exchanged phone numbers, and Eric isn’t sure that he’d use Jack’s if he had it. They never run into each other on the street, even though they're both up and out of their apartments early, from the sound of things. Eric watches for Jack carefully over the next three days, but they don’t cross paths.

Eric drags himself toward his next day off with Herculean effort and enough forced cheer to fuel an entire squad. On that long-awaited day, he doesn’t even bother crawling out of bed until nearly noon, and he’s huddled on the couch with a half-eaten leftover pie when his buzzer sounds at one-thirty. “What the hell…?” he mutters, squinting suspiciously toward the door. He finally dislodges himself from his sofa at the second sharp _bzzz_. As he crosses the room, he mercilessly squashes the tiny, obstinate hope that there might be an NHL player in his lobby.

He brings the intercom to life and says, “Hello?”

The voice that responds is flat, but it’s bored, not measured like Jack’s. “Delivery for Eric Bittle.”

Eric blinks. Shrugs. Presses the buzzer, and then hovers near his door, mired in disappointment and curiosity.

The knock comes a few minutes later, and Eric has the door open almost before it’s done. When he sees what’s waiting for him, he freezes, gaping at the person on the other side — who is half hidden as they try to juggle the biggest bouquet of roses Eric has ever seen. “Delivery for Eric Bittle,” the voice repeats, and the flowers jerk to the side enough that Eric can make out the face of a teenage boy, his expression unimpressed and sliding into annoyance.

“That’s me,” Eric says. The boy shifts the roses in their fat glass vase into Eric’s hands, and Eric makes a noise of surprise at how heavy they are. “These are for _me_?”

“If you’re Eric Bittle,” the kid says. He wedges a pen into Eric's hand and Eric attempts to scribble out something like his signature without dropping the bouquet. The kid is already walking away by the time Eric is done. “Thanks.”

“Wait!” Eric calls, shifting the bouquet into a more secure position against his hip. “Do I — tip you? I don’t… I’ve never gotten flowers before.”

The guy waves a dismissive hand over his shoulder. “Nah, man. Delivery fee’s built into the price. Enjoy.”

“Thank you!” Eric shouts at his retreating back. His neighbors are going to love him. The kid gives him a last, irritated wave as he turns the corner and disappears.

Eric stands there for a moment, blinking dumbly at the roses, before he angles back into his apartment, kicking the door shut. He manages to shove a stack of mail aside without dropping the vase to wrestle the whole display into the middle of his shabby dining room table, where it looks horribly out of place. For a moment, Eric can’t do anything except gawk at it. He has _no idea_ who would send him such a thing, and that’s when he realizes that he should look for a card.

He works his fingers carefully between the stems, mindful of both thorns — which he discovers have been trimmed — and of the delicate beauty of the flowers themselves. He unearths a small rectangle of cardstock and flips it open anxiously to discover a short message: _c/o Eric Bittle_.

That’s all there is, and Eric feels a hot flash of embarrassment and anger. It must be from Jack’s friend again — what the _fuck_ is with this guy? Is he Jack’s boyfriend? Is he so stupid that he can’t figure out the difference between Jack’s address and Eric’s? Or worse, did he send these to Eric on purpose as some sort of joke because Jack told him about what happened after their dinner? Jack has to have figured out that Eric has a pathetic crush, and turned him into the butt of a heartless prank.

Well, Eric’s not going to sit idly by and put up with that. He hefts the bouquet again and, without any other further ado, storms out of his apartment.

It’s not until he’s standing in the lobby of the River View that he realizes he has no idea what he’s going to do if Jack isn’t home. The part of him that’s running on pure emotion favors throwing the vase against the wall and leaving shards of glass littering the entryway, but rationally, he’s very aware of the security camera mounted in the corner. In any case, when he buzzes Jack’s apartment, he gets a stern, familiar _yeah?_ in response and he answers, his voice clipped, “It’s Eric Bittle.”

“Oh,” Jack says, and his voice is suddenly — different. Eric bristles further. “Come on up.”

Eric maneuvers through the door, ignores the wide-eyed stare of a woman in the lobby, and takes the elevator to the fifth floor. Some of his nerve runs out along the way, so he’s feeling as jittery as he is angry when Jack opens the door, but Eric still greets him with a snapped, “Is this a joke?”

Jack looks… absolutely gobsmacked, his face more open and expressive than Eric’s ever seen it. His eyes flash to the bouquet in Eric’s arms, then back to his face. “What?”

“Because this is an awful lot of money to spend on a joke — well, maybe not for you. But still, it’s cruel, and it’s the only other explanation I can come up with, unless your weirdo friend is actually your boyfriend. Why else would he send me three dozen roses?” Eric’s entire face is hot, and he feels the horrifying pinprick sensation of tears at the back of his eyes.

“Shitty didn’t send you those,” Jack says.

“He must have,” Eric argues, glaring at the flowers. “The card said _care of Eric Bittle_ , just like the boxes did. Wait —” he pauses, looking back up at Jack “— how do you know?”

Jack looks pink, and he answers simply. “Because they’re from me.”

Eric’s brain whites out and his hands go slack on the vase. It starts to slide from his grasp, and Jack jerks forward to steady it. “You sent me these?” Eric manages to get out, his voice small.

“Yes. Maybe best to set them down, eh?”

Eric allows Jack to take charge of the bouquet and follows him as he walks into the apartment. He watches as Jack sets it on the coffee table, then steps back to inspect it. “They euh, they look nice,” he says, lifting one hand to rub the back of his neck, then jerking it back down to cross his arms over his chest. “The florist did a good job.”

“They’re beautiful,” Eric agrees weakly. “Why did you…?”

Jack turns to look at him. “Because I like you,” he replies, like it’s the most obvious thing in the world.

“You like me.”

“Yes. I wanted to make a gesture. And ask you out. But I didn’t know how to get in touch with you, other than I know where you live. It was never a joke.”

Eric is going to die. He’s going to expire right here and now in the recessed living room of the Providence Falconers newest acquisition, and then he is going to will himself back to life because _Jack Zimmermann wants to go on a date with him_ and he refuses to be dead for that. He feels a little lightheaded, and a laugh bubbles, unbidden and unexpected, out of his throat. “You silly boy.”

There’s a beat of silence, and then Jack asks, “So, is that a… no?” It’s only then that Eric notices that he actually looks — nervous. He’s making Jack Zimmermann _nervous_ , and as wondrous as _that_ is, Eric can’t allow it to continue.

“No!” he exclaims. “I mean no, it’s a yes. Yes. I would love to go out with you.”

Eric beams at Jack, and Jack smiles right back.

And then, Eric becomes suddenly, painfully aware that for this supremely important moment, he’s wearing short running shorts, knee socks, rubber sports sandals, and a t-shirt that says _Bakers Have Nice Buns_. He looks down at himself and says mournfully, “Oh, lord.”

“You look good,” Jack says, and Eric can’t even tell if he’s being teased or not. “You might want to change before dinner, though. I mean, it’s not a super fancy place, but they would probably frown on those shorts.”

Eric blinks at him. “Before… dinner?”

“Oh.” Jack looks sheepish. “I thought maybe we could go out tonight? I have the day off, you have the day off…”

“But that means I have to get up early tomorrow,” Eric points out.

Jack cocks his head. “Is there some reason you wouldn’t want to get up early the morning after a first date?” There’s a glint in his eye, and Eric _knows_ this time that he’s being chirped.

Even so, he sputters. “Of course not! What kind of boy do you take me for, Mr. Zimmermann?”

“Well then,” Jack says, a note of triumph in his voice, “why not get dinner tonight? Unless you already have plans.”

“I don’t.” Eric shakes his head, knowing full well that he’s lost the argument — not that he feels even remotely like he’s losing. “All right, and as stunning as this ensemble may be, I think I will go freshen up a little.”

“That sounds like a plan,” Jack replies. “I’ll walk you out, and come get you around six?”

Eric happily agrees. He goes to pick up the roses again, but Jack waves him off. “I’ll bring them back to you tonight. You’ve carried enough stuff this way; let me return the favor.” Although Eric hates to be separated from them, wants nothing more than to stare at them and tweet pictures of them for the next hour, he goes along with it. He isn’t in the mood to argue about much of anything.

“A gentleman should bring flowers on the first date anyway,” Eric comments as they walk together toward the front door.

When they get there, Jack doesn’t make any immediate moves to open it, and Eric gets a sense of deja vu as he leans on the wall across from him in the close space.

Jack, perhaps, feels the same. “You know,” he starts, “when you were here the other night… and we were saying goodbye…”

His voice trails away, leaving Eric on tenterhooks. “When we were saying goodbye?” he finally prompts.

“I thought maybe you were going to —” Jack pauses again “— make a move.”

“A move?” Eric can hardly breathe.

“Yeah,” Jack says. He doesn’t elaborate, and just when Eric thinks that nothing more is forthcoming, he adds, “You could have.”

Eric’s heart knocks viciously against his ribs. It’s an admission, but he thinks it might also be an invitation, and before he even knows that he’s going to say it, it’s out: “You can now. Just never tell my mama I put out before the first date.”

_Ohgodohgod_ , he’s never said anything so forward in his _life_ , not to someone he barely knows, but Jack just huffs out a quiet laugh, pushing away from the wall, and then he’s right in front of Eric. He doesn’t say anything as he anchors Eric with one hand gently cupping the side of his face, and without further preamble, he leans in.

The kiss is a brief but electric thing, sweetly lingering but still over too soon. It’s a tease and a promise, and it zings a line of electricity straight down into Eric’s gut. Jack’s lips are both softer and more subtle than Eric had expected; they hover over his own for a charged moment before Jack presses back in one more time, then pulls away entirely. Eric swoons toward him as he goes, his eyes blinking open. “I don’t think that could offend even your mother,” Jack says, low, as he slides his hand from Eric’s face, down his neck to his shoulder.

Eric, with every one of his nerves lit up and singing, isn’t so sure — not when it’s a man he’s kissing — but now isn’t the time to dwell on unpleasant things. Not when everything is so very, very pleasant. “Even so,” he breathes, barely finding voice for the words, “let’s just keep it our little secret.”

“Okay.” Jack squeezes his shoulder, and Eric lifts his arms to grasp lightly at Jack’s t-shirt, and _oh_ , he should have done that before. He can feel Jack’s waist underneath. Jack stays close, speaks again. “You taste like cinnamon.”

“Apple pie,” Eric says. “I was eating it. Uh, before.”

“Apple pie?” Jack repeats, and Eric is close enough to see how much it sparks his interest.

Eric files it away. “Mmhmm,” he confirms, and he thinks he’s going to be kissed again.

Instead, Jack smiles and steps away completely to open the door. “I’ll come get you at six?”

What a _tease_. Eric has no idea if it’s intentional or not, but he can’t work up a good pout because oh lord, he can’t stop smiling. “Six,” he agrees.

“See you then,” Jack says, his eyes locked on Eric’s, not breaking their gaze until Eric turns to leave.

As Eric walks down the hall, he’s not sure if his feet are even touching the ground. He may have only met Jack because of a wrong address, but he can’t help feeling that everything is going to end up very, very right.

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you for reading! ♥ Link to tumblr post [here](http://luckiedee.tumblr.com/post/159768876332/co-eric-bittle-zimbits-fic). Feel free to stop by and say hi. :)


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